


Onyx Blossoms, Onyx Blood

by serenlyall



Series: The Journals of Alderaan [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: First Mission, Gen, Mission Fic, idk for sure exactly where i'm going with it but uhhhh it's an idea i've had for a long time i guess, so um. yeah. we'll be figuring this out together, this is the start of the journals series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23325073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenlyall/pseuds/serenlyall
Summary: Four weeks after the Rebellion's escape from Yavin's moon, Han, Luke, and Leia are sent on a mission to a Mid-Rim planet with strange customs and stranger peoples. Surrounded suddenly by political intrigue, tests of courage and strength as well as loyalty and mind, Han, Luke, and Leia must race against time and against the Empire to secure supplies and trade routes necessary for the Rebellion's very survival.
Relationships: Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker & Han Solo
Series: The Journals of Alderaan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677436
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha should I be starting yet ANOTHER WIP? NOPE. Am I? You bet your ass I am. I've actually been working on this one for a while, and I'm planning on hammering quite a bit out tomorrow, so it shouldn't be too long before I update again. But uh. Yeah. Sorry y'all. At least I'm back in the SW fandom? Speaking of which... *waves* Hi! Long time no see. Missed you all <3

Chapter 1: The Wolf

The Rebel base’s main cargo hangar, buried a hundred feet beneath the ground, was hung with the mechanical hush of midnight. The dozen ships docked on the cracked and pitted permacrete floor sat silent in their berths, only the soft whirr of the banks of processors and computers lining the walls and the faint hum of air circulating through the vents disturbing the shroud of quiet. The large floodlights mounted on the walls were dimmed to the night cycle’s low yellow glow, throwing shadows across the floors and up the walls, and leaving large pools of darkness lying soft and comfortable beneath the bellies of the freighters. Above, the ceiling was lost to the shadows, the double sliding doors that sheltered the ships and hid the hangar from the outside world swallowed by the night’s darkness.

Han Solo—captain of the _Millennium Falcon_ , smuggler, and sometimes mercenary, as well-known for his roguish smirk as his foolhardy luck—let loose a colorful curse. He lay half-hidden beneath the secondary life support unit in the aft hold of his ship, his legs and scuffed boots stretched out amid a clutter of tools and loosened bolts, while the boxy, grill-covered piece of machinery—which he had taken down from its hole in the wall and propped up on two mismatched pieces of durasteel—hid his torso and head.

An echoing _bang_ followed the curse, and Han cursed a second time. A hand emerged from beneath the unit, and he fumbled around with the tools lying by his left thigh, sending two bolts and a wrench skittering across the floor. He huffed, wriggled his hips out from under the machinery, and reached for the wrench again, a muttered, “Why’s Chewie never around when I need him?” muffled by the circuitry and plastisteel above his head.

“Need a hand?”

A second _bang_ came from the underside of the life support unit—this time from Han’s forehead slamming into the bottom paneling. “Kriff,” he spat, this time as much from pain as irritation. Reaching up to wrap his fingers around the bottom edge of the front grill, Han slid out from underneath the propped-up unit. He sat up quickly, looking for the source of the voice.

A stocky, blond-haired man dressed in a general’s uniform stood in the doorway. His hands were folded loosely in front of him, and his eyes were a sharp, slate-blue that, in the low, yellow light, appeared almost silver. The hair at his temples was just beginning to grey, and though he was clean-shaven, Han could imagine that his beard would have threads of silver around his mouth.

“Um,” Han said, and blinked. Of anyone who he might have guessed would interrupt his repairs in the dead of night, an only-vaguely recognized general was about as far down the list of expected visitors as Han could imagine, somewhere just above Imperial Stormtroopers and Jabba’s cronies—and about as welcome as either. He stood warily, snatching a rag from where it hung on the edge of the life support unit, and wiped his greasy hands on the stained and ragged cloth. “Unless you can strip and reroute a coupling wire, or take away my headache, I’m fine,” Han said with a small, sideways smirk. “What can I do for you?” he asked, taking a step over the scattered tools and toward the general.

“I do not believe we have had the pleasure of officially meeting, Captain Solo,” the general said. He took a step forward as well, closing the gap between them to a scant half dozen feet, and extended hand as he did so. A small, warm smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Don’t think we have,” Han agreed casually. He eyed the general warily, gauging the older man’s smile, his cool blue gaze—and he wondered if the calm bluntness he saw was a mask, or the man beneath the mask. “You seem to know me, though,” Han said after a few seconds of silent appraisal, raising his eyebrows, “even though I don’t know you.” He curled his own lips into a short smirk—a taunting, challenging smirk that never failed to rile the princess of Alderaan—and crossed his arms.

“Ah, my apologies,” the general said. He dropped his hand, accepting Han’s blunt refusal, and instead clasped his hands behind his back in a loose imitation of parade rest. “My name is Carlist Rieekan of Alderaan.” At that, a shadow flickered through his eyes—something small, and dark, and horribly, cruelly blunt, like a hammer blow of strangled pain—and Han felt his heart twist, unlooked-for, in his chest. “I sit on High Command,” he went on, before his smile twisted, a flash of bitterness against his openness that Han could not translate, “though that position is only temporary.”

“Temporary, huh?” Han asked, uncrossing his arms, unable to resist rising to the bait of that unexpected admission.

The general did not blink, did not speak. He simply stood there, quiet and calm before Han, his bright eyes as blunt as ever, yet hung now with a veil that Han could not reach past, could not see past. _Interesting,_ he thought, for half a second stumbling in his self-assuredness, uncertain of what the veil meant, or the bluntness.

“So,” Han said, raising his eyebrows and drawing back into comfortable, well-known territory where he was lord and manipulator, “what is a general and temporary member of High Command doing here on my ship in the dark hours of the night?”

“I am here with a proposition.”

The first flickers of a frown stole Han’s smirk. “A proposition?” he echoed. A breath of silence—and then Han laughed, sharp and too-loud. “I’m sick of being errand boy for your suicide squad,” he said, ignoring the tingle in his spine that whispered, _Liar_. “You lot seem to have an elevated idea of my dedication to your little cause.”

“You would be paid well, of course,” the general said.

“No amount of money is enough to get me to risk my ship on another supply run or wire-brained escort mission. I’ve done plenty in just helping you lot get off Yavin and to this new base, and the _Falcon_ ’s been the one to pay for it.”

“Then I suppose it is a good thing this proposition does not require your ship.”

Han, mouth already open to rebuff the general’s certain attempt at persuasion, fumbled, slack jaw falling into what felt disturbingly like a gape. “Not a supply run, huh?” he asked, wrapping his lips and tongue around the words as if they were foreign, sharp-bladed daggers. “And not my ship?” His eyes narrowed. “If you think I’d agree to fly anywhere without the _Falcon_ , then you’re even more delusional than I thought.”

“The choice of ship could be negotiated,” the general said easily, the faintest of curling smiles just visible in his eyes for the first time since he had introduced himself. “And as I said, no, it is not a supply run. Do I have your interest?”

Han distinctly felt that he had walked, straight and willing, into a clever trap.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Han shrugged. “You have my interest, yeah,” he admitted. “What would this mission be?”

“A three week trip to a Mid-Rim planet,” the general said. “Five days’ flight to the planet, five days back, and a little more than a week on-planet. Your primary assignment would be pilot and bodyguard—there to make sure that Skywalker and her Highness, Princess Leia, didn’t accidentally get themselves killed. It—”

“Wait just one minute,” Han said, interrupting the general. A frown curled his lips. “I would have to work with her royal pain in the-”

“Tread carefully, Captain Solo,” General Rieekan growled, cutting him off, soft and quiet with deadly warning, his eyes flashing bright and sharp. For the first time since he had introduced himself to Han, the calm and friendly composure gave way, crumbling and dissolving before a cold, hard-edged flare of anger.

Han swallowed what he had been about to say. The general’s response had been unexpected, and more than a little startling, leaving Han momentarily off-balance for the third time in as many minutes. Though he had only known the man for minutes, Han had not thought to see such hard, biting ire in him—he had seemed too open, too calm, too steadfast. _I suppose it makes sense, though,_ he decided, collecting his thoughts. _If he’s Alderaanian, he wouldn’t want anyone talking bad about precious princess._

He did not apologize, but when Han spoke again, his tone was less abrasive than it had been. “Look, General,” he said, pulling his hands from his pockets to motion in a vague shrug. “You should know by now that the princess and I don’t exactly get along.”

“I know that you two argue, yes,” the general said evenly. “Just as I know that she respects you, and trusts you.”

Han snorted. “Trusts me? Respects me? Yeah, right.”

“You may be surprised.”

“Why would she?” Han raised his eyebrows over a crooked, deprecating grin.

Silence seized a breath, two. Then, with a tone edged in steel but laced with warmth, the general said, “You and Skywalker freed her from hell, Captain. It would be impossible for her not to trust you—even if she may not particularly enjoy your company.”

“So what you’re saying is that she trusts and respects me, but she hates me,” Han said. Even he was surprised at the traces of bitterness just tangible on the edges of his tongue, clinging to the corners of his words.

“What Leia—what the _princess_ —feels toward you,” the general sighed, “is not my concern. What _is_ my concern is her safety. And her safety is what I am considering here—why I am here talking to you tonight.”

It took two heartbeats for what the general had just said to truly sink in—and when it did, Han felt vaguely as if he had been smacked upside the head.

“General,” Han said, lifting his voice to cover his surprise, and taking a step forward to jab a finger into the older man’s chest, to mask his sudden uncertainty, “if you think Leia Organa would let _me_ keep her safe, you don’t know the girl nearly as well as you pretend to.”

“Stubborn as she is—and despite what she would have you believe—even Leia Organa cannot watch her own back.”

Han huffed a sigh, and changed tactics. “Nothing you’ve said so far has convinced me why I should agree to go on another mission for you guys. You really don’t pay well enough for the risk.”

There was another long pause as the general gathered his thoughts. Han could watch it in his eyes—see the older man collect his bearings, review the conversation, assess and reassess, consider every angle of the situation. _He’s being careful_ , Han thought. Then, _He really wants me to do this._

“Captain Solo,” General Rieekan began, “as you are not officially a part of the Rebel Alliance, there is no way that I can order you to go on this mission. That certainly allows you a degree of freedom that none of our commissioned soldiers have.”

Han narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to threaten me, General?” he asked.

“On the contrary,” the general said. “Because of that, I am _asking_ you to take this mission. As a personal favor.”

“And what does a personal favor from a temporary member of High Command mean?”

The general smiled—but it was a small, sad sort of smile that made Han want to scoff and beat a hasty retreat behind his prickly walls of inconsideration. “A great deal more than you might think,” General Rieekan said.

“Look, General,” Han sighed, “even if I decided to do this—and I’m not saying I have—I’d have to talk to my copilot first. I’m not taking on any mission that Chewie isn’t game for.”

The general’s smile shifted, and his eyes brightened, clearly pleased despite Han’s assurance that he hadn’t made up his mind. “Who do you think it was told me where to find you at this late hour?” he asked.

“Wait, so you’ve already talked to Chewie?” Han asked.

“I saw him in the hangar.”

“And you can speak Shyriiwook?”

“Not well,” the general said. “But I accompanied Senator Organa to Kashyyyk a number of years ago, and I learned enough to get by.”

“Wait, Leia’s been to Kashyyyk?” Han asked, surprised. She’d given no indication that she knew much about Wookiees.

“Ah, no,” General Rieekan said, with a small shake of his head. “It was her father, Bail Organa, who was Alderaan’s Senator before her.”

“Oh.”

Han had heard only a little about the late Bail Organa—mostly off-hand comments, followed by sudden silence—but he had seemed like a good man. The general, it seemed, had also known him—and well. The air in the _Falcon_ ’s hold seemed suddenly heavy with a great many unspoken words, and untouched memories that Han had no business glimpsing.

“Well, General,” Han said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I take it there’s a reason you felt the need to convince me of this mission tonight, rather than wait until morning?”

The general blinked, returning squarely to the here and now, and the task at hand. “The mission debriefing is tomorrow morning at 0600 hours,” he said—and then he quirked an off-hand, dry sort of grin. “I thought you would be more receptive to my proposition if it did not come after me waking you at 0500 in the morning.”

Han snorted. “Probably right.”

He hesitated, considered. And then Han sighed, and gave a shrug. “Fine,” he said. “Chewie and I’ll be at your debriefing tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the general said, with a surprisingly large smile. He extended a hand.

“I’m not saying for sure I’ll do it,” Han said, not taking the offered hand. “I want to see just what I’m going to be getting into first.”

“I understand,” the general said.

Han nodded, and at last he grasped Rieekan’s proffered hand. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he said dryly, “I need to finish this.”

“Of course,” General Rieekan said. “Goodnight, Captain. I appreciate you giving me your time.”

Han watched as the general turned and departed. “Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Han muttered to himself once he thought the general was just on the edge of hearing distance. Whether the older man heard him or not, however, the general did not hesitate or turn back at the door as Han had thought he might—as Han had expected. He simply strode out into the shadows filling the corridor, back military straight, pace settled into the same rolling stalk Han had long ago noted in Leia.

Vaguely, he wondered if the stalk was a shared trait among all Alderaanians, or if he just had the luck of finding the only two who did.

Despite what he had told the general, Han did not go back to work on the life support unit. After checking his chrono, he gathered up his tools and cleared away the litter of stripped wires and discarded rags. Then, after washing his hands in the small sink tucked into a small alcove just off the door, Han headed back to his cabin.

He lay awake in his bunk for nearly an hour after climbing between the rough sheets. _Just what am I getting myself into?_ he asked himself half a hundred times.

He had run a handful of missions for the Alliance in the four weeks since Yavin. Mostly cargo transports—ferrying both goods and people from the small moon to the new base—and helping the rag-tag bunch settle into their new home. But he had declined every other offer, from two intelligence runs to commissions. Though Chewie seemed comfortable enough with the rebels, Han had remained adamant—they would not get involved beyond helping move bases, and then they were clearing out to go pay back Jabba.

_So why did you agree to even go to the debriefing?_ a treacherous voice asked snidely in the back of his mind.

_What the hell else was I supposed to say?_ Han shot back. He draped an arm over his face, hiding his eyes and muffling his breathing with the crook of his elbow. _The general was very insistent._

The general…

He did not know what to make of the general. At first glance the general was an easy man to read—steadfast and loyal, but not stiff, and lacking the cloak-and-dagger veils that Leia and every other politician Han had met used to shroud themselves. In fact, while Leia was as much a politician as they came, the general had seemed just what his title suggested—an old soldier, well-worn and scarred—not what Han had come to suspect from a member of High Command.

And yet, there was something cold beneath the general’s exterior—something Han could not quite identify. The general was something more than just an old soldier. His eyes were unguarded, easily readable—but the more Han thought back over their conversation, the less certain he became that he had truly understood what the general was thinking. He had been frank—or at least had seemed truthful—and yet he had still danced a master manipulator’s waltz. The waltz simply had not been shrouded in fog and half-parsed words as Han was accustomed to from politicians.

_What was his game?_ Han wondered. If he could figure that out, he could figure out the man.

_You already know,_ the snide voice told him.

And Han did. He simply wasn’t sure he believed it. Men in power didn’t pull strings or play games that strong for the personal sake of one person.

_“She trusts you,”_ the general had said, and there had been something in his eyes…

_Wolf’s eyes,_ Han decided. _The man has a wolf’s eyes._

_Why the hell do I even care what he wants though?_ Han wondered. _Why do I even care that he cares about Leia? She’s just a tiring pain in the ass._

But he knew that wasn’t true. She was more than just a thorn in his side, despite what he said; she was Luke’s friend, and his…what? What was she? Friend was hardly a word that could describe their spit-and-fire relationship. She shouted, he smirked, and then he laughed when her face turned red and her fists clenched at her sides. They spent time together when they both were on base because of Luke—not because of each other.

And yet, as Han rolled onto his side for what felt like the nineteenth time, he could not help but remember the feeling of her ribs through the sheer material of her stained and torn dress four weeks past, when he had held her in the women’s ‘fresher while she puked her stomach into the sink. The world had been halfway to hell and death hung over them like the looming shadow of night, and for the first time he had realized just how fragile she was—had caught a glimpse of the girl beneath the veils of fire and ice and acid. He could not help but recall the way she had trembled, nor the way she had, for those few moments, seemed so small and fragile, as if no more than a push of his hand would send her shattering into a thousand white shards.

_“You freed her from hell,”_ General Rieekan had said.

_We did, didn’t we?_ Han thought. The memory of the detention block flashed through his mind—the sterile walls, the cool air, the metal tang of pain and fear that had dripped from every wall.

He groaned. _Just because we saved her then doesn’t make us responsible for her now,_ Han told himself sternly.

_No_ , the treacherous voice crooned, and crawled its way down his spine and along his ribs. _But maybe it means you want to be._

Han turned over onto his stomach, and buried his face into his lumpy pillow. _I promised Rieekan I’d go to the meeting in the morning,_ he reminded himself, _not that I’d run the mission_. _I don’t have to make up my mind until then._

With that final, hardly reassuring thought, Han forced his breathing to relax into an even cadence, and, surrounded by the near-silent hum of the slumbering _Falcon_ and the musty scents of engine grease, Wookiee, and recycled sweat, he at last drifted into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Sharp Words, Sharp Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up! I hope you all enjoy.

Chapter 2: Sharp Words, Sharp Eyes

Han’s chrono let loose a shrill chirp, dragging him from sleep. He rolled over and slapped at the small piece of technology, silencing the alarm with fumbling fingers, and sat up with a groan. “It’s too kriffing early,” he grumbled, running a hand down his face. Then he staggered out of bed and toward the ‘fresher.

Twenty minutes later he was showered, dressed and shaved. Leaving his cabin, he paused just long enough to bang on Chewie’s door and shout, “Get up. I told that general we’d go to the meeting,” before heading to the _Falcon_ ’s galley.

By the time Chewie entered the kitchen, grumbling to himself in soft whurfles and growls, Han had a cup of caf in hand. He leaned against the counter, taking small sips of steaming drink, letting the bitter taste wash away the fog of sleep still clinging to his mind.

Chewie glanced at Han as he rooted around in the cupboard beside the conservator, and barked a question.

“Yeah,” Han said with a small shrug, “the general talked to me. But I haven’t made up my mind yet about whether or not to accept.” Han frowned. “You know I don’t want to get involved.”

Chewie snorted and shook his head, before turning back to the cupboard. He pulled out a container filled with dried nerf strips, and popped the top.

“What?” Han asked, voice rising in consternation. “We’ve already talked about this, and you agreed my debt is more important.”

Again Chewie shook his head, and then growled a comment through a mouthful of jerky.

“I am not already involved,” Han said. “ _We_ aren’t already involved. The only reason I’ve—”

Chewie turned and stretched out a large hand to rest on Han’s shoulder, cutting off his indignant tirade before it could begin. Then he moaned, long and low, and gave Han a long, hard look. Then, without another word, he turned and left the kitchen, carrying his last two strips of jerky with him.

Han watched him leave, mouth half agape as he stared after his friend. “What,” he spluttered. “It’s not like I don’t—” With a sharp sigh that cut his sentence off, Han placed the mug of caf down on the counter—with somewhat more force than was necessary, sending a small wave of brown droplets splattering across the grainy countertop—and then stalked out of the room.

“Come on, ya big oaf,” he shouted, turning toward the main hatch. “We’d better get going, or else we’re gonna be late.”

Chewie was already standing by the open door, watching Han with a mixture of amusement and minor annoyance in his bright eyes. He shook his head as Han neared, and coughed a laugh, before turning and leading the way down the ramp.

They walked out of the hangar in silence, leaving the shadows of the slumbering ships behind to enter the brighter-lit, white and grey hallways of the base proper. The floor was off-white tile, the walls paneled with sheets of durasteel, and the ceiling hung low with bleaching yellow lights.

Only a few personnel were up at half past five in the morning. They passed a technician carrying a cup of caf and looking as if he hadn’t slept in at least three days, two men in civilian garb carrying datapads and sporting the badges indicating that they were infomonkeys, and a short woman dressed in a ship officer’s uniform. The woman eyed Han and Chewie as they passed, her lips thinning into white lines, but she did nothing more than nod curtly in acknowledgement—which was more than any of the others they met.

The briefing room was located three levels beneath the hangar, at the heart of the base. A long, oval table sat at the center of the brightly lit room, the top gleaming a dull, yellow copper beneath the bank of harsh white lights hanging from the ceiling. It was lined on two sides by twelve high-backed chairs, while screens lined the two longest walls. Half of them were already powered on, and were showing collections of star and planetary charts, hyperspace maps, graphs, and pictures and information logs of a planet Han had never heard of.

Three people were already present in the room when Han and Chewie arrived. Han caught sight of Luke first; the sandy-haired pilot sat in a chair not quite halfway down the table with his back to the door, his shirt collar damp and half unfolded at the nape of his neck. He turned when he heard the door open, and he grinned broadly at Han and Chewie as they entered.

General Rieekan stood to the left, at the head of the room, beside a tall, sharp-faced, red-haired woman clad in a flowing beige robe tied with a blue-green sash. They both glanced up when smuggler and Wookiee walked in, and both nodded in short, terse greeting before returning to their hushed conversation, shoulders angled in toward each other, heads bowed, and lips moving only slightly.

Han spared a glance at Chewie, who shrugged and whuffled slightly before motioning toward the chairs beside Luke. Han nodded, and sauntered over to the table, Chewie following a few steps behind.

“Morning, Kid,”

Luke looked up from the folder of flimsies on the table in front of him, eyes widening in surprise. “Han!” he exclaimed, bolting to his feet. “I didn’t know you were going to be coming to the debriefing.” He frowned, bright, desert blue eyes darkening like a thundercloud over the sun. “Wait,” he said slowly, “why _are_ you here?”

Dropping his voice, Han said gruffly, “General Rieekan came to me last night and asked Chewie and I to come to the briefing. He wants me on the mission.”

Luke brightened visibly. “You’re coming?” he asked, boyish voice tinged with excitement.

“Now, now,” Han said, lifting a hand, “I never said that. I only said that the General wanted me to come to the briefing to hear what the mission was all about. I never said I was going.”

Luke frowned. “Do you really think they’ll let you know the specifics of the mission and then just…walk away?” he asked skeptically.

Han’s stomach sank. He had not thought about that. He forced his lips into a facsimile of a smirk and shrugged his shoulders. “Even if they keep me on base until the mission is over with, that’s better than actually having to accompany you and the pain-in-the-ass to some gods-forsaken Mid-Rim planet.”

Luke frowned, hurt flashing through his blue eyes and across his blushing cheeks. Realizing what he had said, Han felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Not you,” he said hurriedly. “Gods, it has nothing to do with you. It’s just—”

“You really don’t like her, do you?” Luke asked, narrowing his eyes at his friend.

Han sighed. “It’s not that I don’t like her,” he said grudgingly after a moment. He stared past Luke’s shoulder at the star chart displayed onto the screen behind Luke’s back. “It’s that…”

Chewie, silent until this moment, whuffled. Luke looked to Han for a translation, but Han did not see it in his glare toward the Wookiee. “Oh, do shut up,” he snarled, and then turned and stalked around the table to take a seat as far away from his first mate as he could.

Luke, confused, looked at Chewie. “What did I say?” he asked. Then, “What did _you_ say?”

Chewie snorted a laugh, then pulled out the chair beside Luke and dropped into it. Pulling a flimsie toward him from the stack sitting in front of Luke, Chewie held out a hand and barked a question.

“What?” Luke asked. Chewie wiggled his fingers, then pantomimed writing. “Oh!” Luke exclaimed, and produced a pen from his pocket. Chewie took it, flipped one of the pieces of flimsie over, then began to delicately write.

After a moment, in which Luke watched the Wookiee deftly handle the pen in his massive paw, Chewbacca slid the piece of flimsie back over to Luke, the pen lying on top of the writing. Luke picked the pen up and slid it back into his pocket, then took a look at the writing. It was surprisingly elegant, the script beautiful and smoothly written in spite of the many sharp points in the letters.

_It is not my place to tell you what I told him,_ Chewie had written. _Only know that what I say is half jest, half serious—and that in due time, I do believe you will discover the truth for yourself._

Luke squinted at the cryptic message, then looked sideways at Chewie. “What does _that_ mean?” he asked.

Chewie chortled and shrugged. Luke rolled his eyes.

“Fine then,” he said, sitting back into his chair. “Keep your secrets.”

“He’d better,” Han called from across the table, glaring at his first mate with daggers and ice and ozone.

The door slid open, and Luke turned in time to see Leia walk into the briefing room. She was dressed in her typical white—he had yet to ask her about the significance of her all-white clothes; no one else in the Rebellion seemed to have such a dress code, but she seemed to follow it almost religiously—with pants, high-collared shirt, and stiff jacket emblazoned with the Rebellion’s insignia as well as her rank as a member of High Command.

Her eyes flicked over the room, taking in everyone there. They stopped for half a breath on Han—then slid past him to General Rieekan and the red-haired woman standing beside him.

“Good morning, Carlist,” Leia said with a smile. “Mon.” She turned to Luke, paused as she passed him to rest a hand on his shoulder and give a small squeeze, then said, “And good morning to you too, Luke, Chewbacca.”

“What,” Han quipped from across the table. He was leaning back in his chair, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t I get a “good morning”, your highness?”

At the head of the table, Carlist Rieekan sighed, while Mon Mothma looked vaguely irritated.

“If you had given me the chance,” Leia snapped, turning a hot look on the smuggler, “I would have gotten to you. Unfortunately, you’re too brash to wait for such pleasantries.”

“Ouch,” said Han, sitting up and dropping his foot to the floor. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the nerf this morning.”

Leia rolled her eyes and took a seat to the right of the head of the table, dropping a stack of datapads and flimsies down onto the table in front of her. Seeing her settle down, Mon Mothma claimed the chair at the head of the table, while Carlist Rieekan sat opposite Leia.

“Well?” asked Han when they still made no move to start the briefing. “What are we waiting for?”

“Han,” Leia said, turning and narrowing her eyes at the smuggler, “perhaps practice patience? The briefing is not scheduled to start for another ten minutes, and we are still waiting for some of our council members to join us.”

Han’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Forgive me, your worship,” he said. “I hadn’t realized—”

“Enough.” Mon Mothma’s voice was sharp and clear as it snapped through the air, cracking through the tension like a vibroknife through old leather. Han withered; Leia smirked—until Mothma fixed her with a severe look and said, “Both of you.”

Luke looked between both of his friends, then at Chewie, who shrugged and whuffled a quiet laugh. Shaking his head, Luke went back to reading his pre-mission reports.

An outline of the mission’s parameters sat on top of his stack of flimsies, letters stark black against off-white. Beneath it was a system map of the Caloria system—their destination—while beneath that was a list of supplies that the Rebellion was seeking from the Caloran government.

Luke’s eyes skipped over most of the information—he had read it all twice already—though his gaze caught on the top page twice: first at the mission objectives, second at the list of personnel that would be on the mission.

He reread the mission objectives— _Primary mission objective: Secure trade routes through Calorian system; Secondary mission objective: Obtain supplies from the Caloran government_ —then focused on the personnel list. His name was on it behind Leia’s, followed by a third, unknown name. Han and Chewbacca’s names were nowhere to be seen on the briefing report, and when Luke looked up to see that the briefing room had filled with more members of High Command while his attention had been elsewhere, he did not see anyone who could belong to the unknown name.

Commander Willard was just sitting down beside Leia, a soft smile on his lips as he murmured something to her. General Madine was deep in conversation with General Ackbar as they walked toward seats between General Rieekan and Han. As Luke watched, General Daradin entered into the room, followed a moment later by Commanders Al’barak and Henlu. They took their seats, and then silence fell across the briefing room.

A little surprised to see the entirety of High Command present—at least, the members of High Command who were stationed on the base—Luke looked to Mon Mothma, sitting regally at the head of the table.

“Thank you for coming,” Mon Mothma said at last, looking between each of the ten people sitting before her. Most of them nodded or smiled in reply, though Daradin and Henlu simply watched her, stone-faced and serious. “We are here this morning to discuss and prepare for the Calora Mission.” She looked at Rieekan, then said, “Carlist, if you would?”

Carlist Rieekan stood and crossed to the array of lit projector screens, pulling a pointer from his pocket which he extended and used to point at the star chart. “As you can see,” he said, using the pointer to circle the third planet in the system labeled the Caloria System, “Calora is a small planet located in the Mid-Rim, third from the yellow sun Caloria. It has four continents, and though one of the continents is uninhabitable due to being a sacred jungle bordered by savanna, it sports a population of nearly 10 billion. Its remaining three continents are heavily populated, with the densest populations residing in cities located in the large, northern hemisphere.

“The capital of the planet is known as Caphan, and is also located in the northern hemisphere. Its suburban area spans over a thousand square miles, and Caphan holds nearly 3 billion people alone.

“The flight to Calora will take five days, five days to return, and we anticipate a little more than a week for the mission itself.”

“And just what is the mission?” Han asked, piping up from his end of the table.

Rieekan turned an unimpressed look upon the smuggler, as did the rest of High Command—including Leia.

“Your mission is to convince the Caloran government to continue allowing us to ship essential supplies through their system, and use a select number of their warehouses as waypoints for said supplies,” Mon Mothma said. “The secondary mission objective is to secure fresh supplies from the Caloran government itself.”

Han arched an eyebrow. “Seems simple enough,” he said. He looked between Leia and Rieekan, an unreadable look on his face. “So why do you need me and Chewie? Why can’t Luke just be pilot and guard?”

“We do not…trust the Caloran government,” said Carlist Rieekan carefully, slowly, pointedly. “We already have an agreement with them, brokered and signed by the late Bail Organa.” If he was pained by those words, Luke could not see a sign of it; Carlist Rieekan remained firm and strong, head held high, chin thrust forward, eyes slate grey and hard. “After Alderaan’s destruction and Bail’s death, however,” Rieekan went on, “they grew afraid and attempted to pull out of the treaty with the Rebel Alliance. We fear treachery, and need people we know and trust will protect Leia on the mission.”

Han snorted. “You hardly know me,” said Han with a roll of his eyes. “For all you know, I’ll betray your dear princess for the bounty on her head.”

“You have yet to betray us,” said Rieekan, and his eyes were deadly sharp. “Should we expect it from you, after we place one of our most beloved treasures in your safe-keeping?”

Leia blushed, and Han had the decency to look at the top of the table, unable to meet Rieekan’s eyes. “No,” he muttered, and Chewie barked a reply. Rieekan looked at the Wookiee, and smiled, grim yet amused.

“Wow,” said Han, lifting his head and eyes and meeting Chewie’s gaze. “Traitor.”

“What did he say?” Leia asked, looking between Han, Chewie, and Carlist.

“He said,” said Carlist, “that he would concuss Han if he tried to sell you out.”

Leia arched an eyebrow, looking like she wanted to make a quip. “Ah,” was all she said, however.

Luke glanced over at Chewie. He was difficult to read, but Luke had the distinct impression that Chewie had meant every word of his threat.

_Very interesting,_ Luke thought, canting his head half an inch to one side, gaze thoughtful. He had thought Chewie would do anything to protect Han—and nothing to harm him. Was he wrong about that? Was there something about Leia, specifically, that was inciting Chewie’s protective instinct? And if so, what?

Grumbling, Han leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t said I agreed to the mission yet,” he groused.

A flurry of glances was exchanged around the room, a roiling sea around the calm, quiet bastions that were Carlist Rieekan, Mon Mothma, and Leia Organa.

“What?” Han asked.

“We were under the impression that you had already agreed to take on the mission,” said General Madine.

Han frowned. “Well, I haven’t,” he snapped. He shot Rieekan and Mon Mothma a cutting look. “And I don’t know who would have told you otherwise.”

“By your mere presence here, it was understood that you were part of the mission,” Madine said.

Han’s eyes narrowed. “Huh,” he said. “That’s not what I was told.”

“Please,” said Mon Mothma, lifting a hand. “Let us finish the debriefing.”

Han sank back from where he had sat forward in his chair, arms tightening over his chest. “Fine,” he grumbled, shooting a dark look at Rieekan and ignoring the warning glare from Chewbacca.

The rest of the briefing was a blur for Luke. Too many names were said, too many politics discussed. Calora was, apparently, a political nightmare of a planet—but Luke ignored what they said about that, trusting that Leia would be the one to handle the political aspect of the mission.

Instead, he thought. He thought about Leia, and remembered seeing her pale and gaunt and small, so small, lying on the bench in the Death Star cell; he thought about Han, his smirk and the sound of his laugh as he struck the TIE fighters over the Death Star, saving Luke just in the nick of time; he thought about Chewbacca, howling and hammering on the garbage compactor door as the walls closed in. He thought about a field of rubble deflecting off of the _Falcon_ ’s shields, and about two skeletons smoking in front of a burning homestead.

He thought, and his chest constricted with pain until he could barely breathe. He gripped his fingers together beneath the table, knuckles turning white, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his hands. The room was closing in, the ceiling descending, the floor rising up to swallow him, the chair grabbing hold of him and binding him tight, sucking him down, in, under—

Leia looked at him. She smiled, tentative and barely-there, more a flash of her dark eyes than anything else.

And suddenly, Luke could breathe again.

Leia quirked an eyebrow, as much a question as Luke needed. He nodded. _I’m fine_ , he promised with his eyes and with a quick shrug of his shoulders. Leia nodded, and turned her attention back to Carlist Rieekan, who was just finishing the briefing.

“Luke,” he said, turning to the pilot and causing him to jerk up straight, “you will be acting as pilot and guard for the Princess. Han,” Rieekan said, turning to the smuggler, “you will be guard first, and pilot second. Chewbacca will also be there as a guard.”

Han raised both eyebrows. “I still haven’t said I’ll do the mission,” he said.

Carlist Rieekan exchanged a look with Mon Mothma. “The end of your time to decide is quickly approaching,” he said, ignoring the flurry of glances and glares that rattled around the briefing table. “The four of you ship out first thing tomorrow.”

Han squinted a glare, and stood abruptly from the table. “Chewie,” he snapped, “let’s go.”

The Wookiee huffed a sigh and rose from the table, nodding first at Rieekan then at Mon Mothma, then following Han out of the sliding door.

The rest of the briefing broke up, the various members of the High Command gathering folders and flimsies and datapads into hands and arms and trailing out of the briefing room. Luke stood as well, picked up his own folder, and started toward the door. He hesitated though, turned back to look at Leia, and called, “Leia, I’m going to get some breakfast. You want to come?” He saw Leia glance at him with a grin, and knew in his bones that meant, _Yes._

“Leia, if you would please stay for a moment?”

Leia, who had just stood to gather her files in a messy stack, paused, and looked up at Mon. “Of course,” she said, and sat again.

Leia smiled fleetingly at Luke, hesitating in the doorway, and gave a small nod, urging him on. He looked torn—but then shrugged and mouthed, _I’ll see you there_ , and disappeared through the door.

Carlist was the last to leave. He hesitated at the door as well, sharing a long look with Mon, and a shorter but more intense glance with Leia—and then he too was gone, allowing the door to slide shut soundlessly behind him.

"What is this about, Mon?” Leia asked, as stillness fell over the room.

Mon sighed, and suddenly looked very old and very tired. “I have something to give you,” she said, and lifted a hide-bound book Leia had not noted sitting on the table.

Leia frowned, a gathering knot of apprehension in her stomach drowning out her curiosity.

“Here,” Mon said and, standing and crossing to Leia’s chair, placed the book in front of her. “This is yours.”

Still frowning, Leia opened the front cover of the book. The first page was filled with dark ink in a flowing script—a very familiar flowing script, the words in a smooth, elegant language that she had not seen since she was last in the temple of the Mother Goddess in Aldera. “Mon,” she said very slowly, heart pounding in her breast and breath catching in her throat, “what is this?”

“It is a journal,” Mon said, “written by your father. It details his first mission to contact the Calorans.”

Leia’s frown deepened. “He kept a journal?” she asked skeptically. She shook her head. “He wouldn’t have been so careless. What if it fell into the wrong hands?”

“He took precautions,” Mon said. “There aren’t many who can read old Alderani. And the journals are in code that he said only you would be able to understand.”

Leia froze, then looked up slowly. “ _Journals_?” she asked. “There’s more than one?”

Mon did not shift, nor look away—but to Leia, well familiar with her old friend and mentor’s well-worn masks and subtle tells, saw a note of wary resignation creep into the older woman’s eyes. “Leia,” she began carefully.

But Leia cut her off, seeing all she needed in Mon’s face. “How dare you?” she demanded, anger bubbling up in her chest, rising in her throat, pooling in her mouth. She stood and turned to glare at Mon. “A code only I could understand? He meant them for me, didn’t he, in case he died?”

"Leia,” Mon said again, softer, more placating. “We were going to give them to you when you were ready.”

Leia recoiled, anger and hurt flashing across her face as she drew back. “When I was ready?” she asked, voice dripping with contempt and poorly restrained anger. “And how would you have decided when I was “ready”? When you needed the information in them?”

“We were concerned,” Mon said, voice still as infuriatingly calm and placating. “You have not handled the last few weeks well, and—”

"Haven’t handled it well?” Leia snapped, recoiling further still. “And what would “handling it well” look like, Mon? I’ve been strong. I haven’t let it impact my work. I’ve—”

“You haven’t grieved, Leia,” Mon snapped, her calm at last cracking. “And before you try to convince me you have, one night spent crying to Carlist does not count. You lost your planet, Leia, including your father—and you haven’t even taken the time to process it.”

“I want the journals,” Leia hissed, white-faced and burning-eyed. “You have no right to keep them from me.”

“They’re scattered throughout the galaxy,” Mon said evenly, standing tall and unwavering before the brunt of Leia’s scathing glare, “in safeboxes and hidden vaults. And even if I decided to retrieve them for you right this instant, I couldn’t get them all.” Leia’s eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Mon held up a hand, forestalling her. “I only know where a third of them are located,” she said. “Your father entrusted the others to Carlist and Ahsoka.”

“Carlist and Ahoska both knew?” Leia asked, wounded, after a long second of silence.

Mon sighed, then nodded once, sharp and resigned. “Yes,” she said. “For what it’s worth, Leia, they argued with my decision to keep them from you.”

"They still agreed,” Leia said, eyes narrowing and tone hardening. She turned away, and snatched up her papers still scattered over the table. “You had no right, Mon,” she said, turning back to look at Mon one last time. Her glare was cold and condemning. “You had _no right_ to keep my father from me.”

With that, she whirled on her heel and strode out of the meeting room, not even sparing Mon the formality of a farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Chewie said at the beginning of the chapter to Han was, loosely translated, "It’s okay to do something just because you care about someone" or "It’s okay to care about someone".

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Glad to see me back? Comment and let me know!


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